


Notes Toward A Monograph Upon the Intellect and the Passions, Part One

by PlaidAdder



Series: Missing Pages [23]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Mycroft, Queer History, Siblings, Story: The Adventure of the Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-24 04:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidAdder/pseuds/PlaidAdder
Summary: Watson will of course make his own memorandum of this case; but he is not a specialist, and his areas of expertise render him peculiarly unprepared for a vigorous analysis of the central question of this projected monograph, viz., the optimal relationship between the intellect and the passions with regard to the science of deduction. In any case, at the moment, his information is incomplete. During the Larches episode, I had no opportunity (more accurately, I made no opportunity) to inform Watson of Adair's death, or of my clandestine visit to the scene and its aftermath. Our adventure unfolded so rapidly, and rose to such a pitch of urgency, that I never had the chance to tell him these details; and now, Watson is, alas, making his way down the stairs and out of 221b in the company of Lestrade, who is finding them a cab which they have agreed to share. Though I now know that Watson's assessment of his own gifts as an actor was entirely accurate, I hope that he is concealing the pain he must feel at parting from me after a night such as we have had.***Part One of Holmes's narration of his investigation of the death of the Right Honourable Ronald Adair. Part Two coming soon.





	Notes Toward A Monograph Upon the Intellect and the Passions, Part One

**NOTES TOWARD A MONOGRAPH UPON THE INTELLECT AND THE PASSIONS**

**by Sherlock Holmes**

**Memorandum: The murder of The Honorable Ronald Adair**

Watson will of course make his own memorandum of this case; but he is not a specialist, and his areas of expertise render him peculiarly unprepared for a vigorous analysis of the central question of this projected monograph, viz., the optimal relationship between the intellect and the passions with regard to the science of deduction. In any case, at the moment, his information is incomplete. During the Larches episode, I had no opportunity (more accurately, I made no opportunity) to inform Watson of Adair's death, or of my clandestine visit to the scene and its aftermath. Once we sallied out to the empty house, our adventure unfolded so rapidly, and rose to such a pitch of urgency, that I never had the chance to tell him these details; and now, Watson is, alas, making his way down the stairs and out of 221b in the company of Lestrade, who is finding them a cab which they have agreed to share. Though I now know that Watson's assessment of his own gifts as an actor was entirely accurate, I hope that he is concealing the pain he must feel at parting from me after a night such as we have had. 

I find I am adopting Watson's bad habit of beginning at the end and telling the story back to front. These notes, like all of my notes on this project so far, must be severely redacted before publication; but it will nevertheless save me time and effort to lay them out in the correct narrative sequence. I begin, then, with the moment that I, concealed behind the closed door to Mycroft's study, heard the door to Mycroft's rooms bang open, then closed, and heard my brother call out, "Sherlock! Come out here and speak to Lord Bellinger."

This was unexpected and unwelcome for many reasons. First, at the moment the door burst open I happened to be perusing the agony columns of that evening's paper, and had just discovered an alarming item. Second, Mycroft was meant to be keeping my continued existence on the planet a secret from London in general and Lord Bellinger in particular. He had not asked my permission before revealing my secret, which raised the question of how many other Committee members might now know of it. Third, I have always found my brother's voice, when raised to that pitch of exasperation, peculiarly unmusical. 

However, after listening carefully for some moments, I could not detect any evidence of anything untoward or dangerous taking place in the sitting room. I therefore emerged, and endured the first of many gasps, exclamations, and protestations of disbelief.

"I've explained to Lord Bellinger, in conditions of extreme secrecy," Mycroft interrupted, "that after dropping Moriarty into the Reichenbach Falls, you escaped incognito and came straight to me. The past three months of enforced constant companionship have taken their toll on both of us," he concluded, "but at least it means that you are at Lord Bellinger's disposal in this moment of crisis."

That it was a moment of crisis, of course, I had deduced from the state of his dress; but I would have known that in the absence of any evidence. It is always a crisis when the government requests my services. 

Given the subject of our inquiry, I am justified in pausing here to reflect on what my sentiments were at the time. Since I have turned my attention to the Great Problem, I find that the analysis of an emotional response is a delicate and absorbing business. For instance, I have long been aware that I vastly preferred ordinary citizens in private difficulties to embarrassed men of state; but a year ago I would have put that down to the fact that the problems of ordinary citizens were more unusual and therefore more interesting. Upon reflection, however, I am now forming the hypothesis that my preference for the private citizens as clients has much to do with the way they come to me. How pleasant it is to spend a morning in our sitting room, conducting my chemical researches while Watson reads the papers or makes notes at his writing-desk, as the sunbeams slant through the windows--and then, just as contentment threatens to curdle into tedium, to see Watson go to look out of the window, or to hear the bell ring, or to hear Mrs. Hudson's not always gentle knock on the door. My senses and (I must acknowledge) my sensibilities alike delight in that absorbing moment when the problem of the day presents itself, no less than in the perfunctory little dance regarding Watson's joining me on the adventure. How stimulating to fling oneself through the street-door and plunge into the storm-tossed world of crime...and then return after sundown for dinner and a final summing-up by the fireside over a good pipe. That is my ideal day, as a consulting detective.

I had been without all of those things for months. In Cornwall, despite the primitive conditions and (in the last days) the continual attempts at assassination, the stronger passions overwhelmed any regrets I might have had about being so far from our Baker Street rooms and their ordinary comforts. But to actually be in London--to be prevented by Mycroft and his limitless prudence from even coming as far as the sitting room, and to know that our old rooms in Baker Street were sitting empty while Watson and I were sequestered, each in a place he longed to quit--had quite an effect upon my disposition. I therefore responded to Lord Bellinger's expressions of astonishment rather curtly, and begged that he would make his request immediately.

Lord Bellinger drew a very troubled breath. He was more pallid than usual, by two shades. (See appendix a, "Anxiety-induced pallor, a graduated scale.") "It's about Adair," he said.

"The Right Honorable Ronald Adair," Mycroft elaborated.

"He was recruited as a Foreign Office covert agent--to investigate the theft and sale of state documents..."

"And?" Mycroft prompted.

"And the operation has taken rather a bad turn."

"By which his Lordship intends to say," said Mycroft, turning back toward me, "that Adair was scheduled to rendezvous with his handler an hour ago, and did not turn up."

I shrugged. "A dozen arbitrary accidents might have--"

"If I might continue," Mycroft added, while Lord Bellinghurst closed his eyes and tried to calm his agitated breathing. "It has been ascertained that Adair returned home from the Bagatelle Club at nine o'clock this evening. He repaired to his room immediately, ordered tea and muffins, and asked when they were brought not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. When the tea was brought, Adair had paper, pen, and ink out on his writing-desk and was in his shirtsleeves. After the tea was left, he was heard locking the door from the inside."

This incremental explanation was excruciating, and I was in some haste. I made an end of it.

"Who found him?" I said.

"I beg your pardon?" said Lord Bellinger. Mycroft smiled, softly, slightly--as he used to when I was a boy, whenever I had solved one of his little puzzles.

"Your agent has been murdered, or you wouldn't be so agitated; and he has not yet been discovered by the official police, or you wouldn't have come to me. Who found him?"

"His handler, when Adair missed his appointment, became uneasy. In reconnoitering outside Adair's family home, he discovered that a pane of glass in the window corresponding to Adair's room had been shattered. It took perhaps thirty minutes to discreetly collect the necessary information from the servants. I went straight to Mycroft; and he brought me straight here. Mr. Holmes, we stand in urgent need of just the sort of unofficial help which you have so often and so unerringly provided in the past. It is a matter of grave importance to the Crown and to the state."

"Precisely what sort of 'help' are you requesting? Pray be exact as to the details."

Lord Bellinger swallowed, took a breath, and said, "We need to recover what he was writing, before his family or the official police do."

I looked at Mycroft. Mycroft gave nothing away.

"I fear I cannot help you," I said. "Please be discreet about your exit. I have enemies in London who would know exactly how to interpret your presence here."

Lord Bellinger blinked. "I don't understand," he said.

"I put it in very plain English," I replied. "But I have no objection to paraphrase if that will assist your comprehension. I will not take this case. Good evening."

"But--Mr. Holmes--" It was unclear to which of us Lord Bellinger meant to address his appeal. "The stakes are very high, for this Government, for Britain--"

"The stakes are high for  _you_ , my Lord," I shot back. "It is a matter of complete indifference to  _me._  The young man whom you 'recruited'--please recall that I know exactly how you 'recruit' your civilian agents--is beyond my help, and I have no interest in separating your Committee from the consequences of its own practices. There is, furthermore, no possibility that the successful resolution of this case would bring me any closer to anything that  _I_  want. If you won't allow me to wish you a good evening, then please have an indifferent one,  _elsewhere_."

"His lordship has omitted to mention," said Mycroft casually, "that the target of Adair's operation, and therefore the prime suspect in his murder, is Colonel Sebastian Moran."

 At that moment, an extraordinary burst of intellectual and emotional activity took place within me. I will list, in no particular order, each deduction that I made, with the emotional responses attached to it.

**Deduction 1. Mycroft had forseen Adair's death at Moran's hands and had long been planning to use it to bring about my return to public life.**

* emotion A: RELIEF, that Mycroft had revealed my location to Bellinger only as part of the plan for my return, and not because he never considers the human consequences of his actions.

* emotion B: ANGER: + at myself for having failed to deduce this immediately, ++ at Mycroft for not having informed me of his plans when he formed them, +++ at myself again for the years during which I treated Watson exactly the way Mycroft had just treated me.

* emotion C: EXCITEMENT, at the prospect of finally bringing Moran's career to an end whilst extorting from the desperate Bellinger some urgently needed concessions.

**Deduction 2. From Lord Bellinger's demeanor at this moment: Mycroft had always been against bringing Adair into this business.**

* emotion a: GRIEF, for the young man Adair, who was not an acquaintance of mine, but who did not deserve to be drawn into this snare.

* emotion b: RESENTMENT, that Mycroft's counsel had once again been ignored by men more powerful and less intelligent than he.

* emotion c: SADNESS, for Mycroft, that the journey on which I had learned so much had finally taught him so little.

Item 2.c would benefit from further elaboration. It is one of my brother's flaws that when he has predicted a  **probable** outcome, he comes to view it as  **the inevitable**  outcome. Having accurately deduced that Adair was incapable of outwitting Moran, he became convinced, as soon as he failed to dissuade the committee from  using him, that Adair's death was fated. This is an understandable failing; it comes from the fact that Mycroft has predicted so many dire outcomes, been ignored so often, and so frequently seen his prediction come to pass regardless. It is a failing nevertheless. Had Mycroft informed me of his plans, I could have put it to him that if we managed to neutralize Moran immediately Adair's death could be prevented. But Mycroft's belief that Adair's death was an unavoidable consequence of his "recruiting" was so strong that it never occurred to him to put me in the way of helping him avoid it. From a purely objective point of view, Mycroft's decisions and actions in this matter would seem calculating and heartless in the extreme. It requires my intimate knowledge of him to understand that Adair's death is something my brother bitterly regretted--but for Mycroft, Adair's death actually  _occurred_  at the instant in which Mycroft foresaw it. From Mycroft's subjective point of view, Adair died the day he was 'recruited.' It had simply taken some time for the news to travel to us.

This is not the way anyone else sees the world. I am well aware of that. My sadness on this occasion thus derived from my sudden realization that Mycroft will not and cannot ever see the world any other way. I will never enable or force Mycroft to share my belief in the importance of prompt and energetic action, or of turning improbabilities into certainties. 

 "Very well," I said, calmly. "I will take the case, on one condition."

"Name it," said Lord Bellinger, with unseemly relief.

"Mycroft and I will have the Night Coach tonight, to ourselves. I require no other assistance, and I will give up the case instantly if we are watched or followed."

"Done," said Lord Bellinger, though not without pain.

"Then, my Lord," I said, with a smile, "all that remains is for you to take your leave and give your orders. Do not expect news until well after midnight."

Lord Bellinger had not been gone for more than two minutes when Mycroft turned on me and hissed, "The  _Night Coach?_   To go to  _Park Lane?"_

"No," I said, snatching up the agony column and throwing it at him. "To go to the Larches."

He scanned the page, read the item, and groaned. "Sherlock, I do not know where you imbibed your misbegotten notions of chivalry--"

I was already in the bedroom, putting on my burglar's black. "They are not MY misbegotten notions," I retorted. "We know Watson is following their story. We also know he would die before he would leave a woman in danger undefended."

Mycroft snorted. "Do you  _really_  think your Doctor capable of making the correct inferences?"

" _Yes I do!_ "

This is really too much color and life for a scientific monograph. Suffice to say that the coach was brought, that a mistrustful Mycroft installed himself in the driver's box, and that I shut myself up in its pitch-black womb to ruminate bitterly on an idiotic world's continual underestimation of Dr. Watson. In the very first weeks of our acquaintance, I was looking for a particular document in our sitting room and I came upon a sheet of paper with  _Sherlock Holmes--His Limits_ written at the top. I was instantly offended at the thought that this hapless and aimless ex-army doctor should presume to define MY limits--to presume that indeed I had limits at all. Yet my perusal of this document changed my opinion of him entirely. He had evidently attempted to deduce my profession based on information gleaned from conversation with me combined with observations of my behavior and habits. That he was utterly unable to do so was immaterial; my profession is unique, and it takes a skilled and audacious reasoner to infer from evidence the existence of something hitherto unimagined. The point was that he had already grasped the basic methods of the science of deduction. And though his work in that document showed no spark of brillance or moment of elan, yet his delineation of my character somehow got under my skin and stayed there for weeks. He understood almost instinctively that I was incomplete. Again, he misinterpreted; he believed that because I never spoke of literature, or philosophy, or astronomy, that I knew nothign of these things. In fact, as I assimilated his sketch, I recognized that this was an accurate description of the character in which I appeared to him--in which I appeared to everyone. It was simply not a very accurate--no. Let me be forthright and say that the character I presented to him in those early weeks was a truncatet, mutilated, diminished and hollowed version of my true self. It was the character I had created in order to inspire confidence--in order, before and above all else, to make my elder brother proud of me.

As a child, I believed that Mycroft knew everything. I believed him, therefore, when he taught me that feeling is incompatible with reason and that passion was the scourge of mankind. I now understand that while Mycroft is not without feeling--he certainly loved our parents and from his behavior I must infer that he loves me--he knows nothing of passion. He has one of those natures in which passion cannot live. For that reason he believes that every man, if he would only apply himself, is capable of banishing passion from his life entirely. It was clear by the time I went to university that I was cast in a different mould. Mycroft's way was, however, my ideal; and I continued to strive towards it, despite frequent setbacks.

Watson, after two weeks' acquaintance, and knowing so little about me, perceived my "limits" without knowing how diligently I had worked, for so long, to impose them upon myself. I will not say that Watson himself does not have his limits. Yet whenever I think I have found them, something occurs to surprise me--whether it is an old story about a moss rose, or a gunshot to Professor Moriarty's head.

We reached Park Lane at a quarter past ten o'clock. I had, I judged, forty-five minutes to deal with Bellinger's problem before turning attention to my own. As the window in question gave out upon a quiet street with very little traffic, and as Adair's family were all from home and nearly all the servants had retired, gaining entrance to Adair's room was child's play. I found an unoccupied house at the end of the block, picked the lock, ran up to the garret, gained the roof, ran along the roof-line from house to house--experiencing, I must conscientiously note, sixty-three seconds of pure joy and release after being cooped up in Mycroft's burrow--then dropped down on Adair's roof, dangled over, reached through the broken pane of glass, undid the latch, threw up the sash, swung myself feet-first over the edge of the roof, and dropped into the room through the now-open window. 

The exercise was stimulating. It whetted my already keen anticipation of encountering Watson in the flesh at the Larches. This anticipation curdled rapidly when I encountered, not the stocky and vigorous form of my friend, but the stiffening corpse of the Right Honourable Ronald Adair.

Adair had been sitting with his back to the window, and now lay slumped on the table. A bullet had entered near the base of his skull, and his head was bloodied and shattered to an extent which suggested an air-gun. So far, everything was as I had forseen it. There were, however, two objects in the vicinity I had not expected. One was a small, stiff, cream-colored envelope, bulging with a heavy enclosure but unsealed, and addressed to a Mrs. Edith Woodley of Carstairs, which lay on the carpet near the chair. The other, which lay on the table near Adair's ink-stained right hand, was a loaded revolver.

I dismissed the first thoughts that came to mind as insane. The revolver showed no sign of having been recently fired; and in any case, Adair certainly could not have shot  _himself_  in that location. A brief examination of the grisly object that had once been Adair's head confirmed that he had no other wound. And yet there was the revolver, loaded and ready to hand. 

I looked at the envelope. The ink on the paper was dry, but the inkwell was still full and the pen nib still stained. It was unsealed. A brief inspection of the table revealed that wax and seal were still in the drawer. Even without comparing the nib to the strokes, it was clear that this was in fact what Adair had been writing when he was shot. However, it seemed highly likely, if not entirely certain, that Lord Bellinger was expecting an entirely different type of document. 

The top sheet began, 

"My dearest Edith,

By the time you receive this letter, I will have departed this life. I wish you all the best, and hope that you will not waste a thought or a tear on one who was never fit to love you. I take with me only the fondest memories of you, and the warmest affection for you. I write this note, not to give you pain, but simply to tell you the true reasons for my breaking off our engagement. I cannot bear for you to go on thinking that I had ceased to love you, or that you had somehow lowered yourself in my estimation. No, my dear one. I broke off our engagement because I feared that if I did not, scandal might one day touch you. I am breaking off my own life in the futile hope that scandal may yet leave my family unscathed. Dearest, some months ago I undertook to assist the government in the apprehension of Colonel Sebastian Moran, who is in reality a traitor, criminal, and spy. I learned tonight that I have not been leading him into the government's snare. Instead, Colonel Moran has been leading me into his own."

I glanced down at Adair's blood-matted curls, and the gore-spattered table. 

I knew exactly what the rest of the letter contained. Hurriedly glancing over it by the dim light of the wall sconces that still burned, I verified my deductions. The very secrets the government had held over Adair to 'recruit' him--the very diary in which he had imprudently recorded his previous  _amours_ \--had been presented to him, at the Bagatelle Club, by Colonel Sebastian Moran. Moran had informed him that from now on, they were partners in crime, or else the diary went into print immediately. Moran had proposed as their first joint venture that Adair should obtain and deliver to Moran the Bruce-Partington plans. 

An experienced hand would have known what to do at that moment. He would have collapsed like a broken man, conceded to Moran, agreed to the theft, and then run off to report the conversation to his handler. But Adair was not an experienced agent of the state; he was an idealistic young man. He therefore angrily refused, burst out of the club, drove home, and ran upstairs to barricade himself in this room, where he poured out his confession to his love, placed it in the envelope...and then felt a bullet enter the back of his head. He had died before he could seal it. The sealing wax and seal remained in the drawer.

Moran, afraid of exposure after Adair's outburst, had murdered Adair just as he was on the point of killing himself. 

In a sense, it was a double murder, with a single victim. 

I experienced an overhwleming and sudden surge of disgust. Injustice filled that room like a stench. This poor man had died alone at a moment of profound despair, and all because he had been imprudent enough to keep a diary in which he recorded things that most men do, and some men boast of. I wondered if Adair had realized, when Moran made his move, what I instantly understood: that Moran could only have obtained the diary from a Committee member. This committee member had undoubtedly been Lord Holdhurst. Passing the diary to Moran must have been his final act of defiance before resigning. It would have been a strike at Mycroft, far more than against myself. Caught between the spymasters and the double agent, what chance did Adair ever have? 

If even Mycroft had spoken to me earlier...but there was nothing I could do for him now.

I stuffed the sheets into the envelope and pocketed it. I pocketed Adair's revolver. I returned to the window, opened it gingerly, climbed to the roof, dangled myself again, closed and locked the window, ran along the rooftops in a somewhat less ecstatic mood, and disappeared again into the belly of the Night Coach, which then sped on its way toward The Larches.

That particular episode affords such a rich field for inquiry that it must be dealt with in a separate section. I will note here only that despite my earlier resolution to tell Watson everything, there were at least seven items of interest that I had fully intended to communicate to him which were not in fact communicated. Our initial conversation was of a quite different nature; and for much of the rest of the journey, conversation was not possible.

It was a quarter to two in the morning when Bellinger finally reappeared in Mycroft's sitting room, having been summoned there by a note dispatched with one of Mycroft's trusted couriers. 

Though it was August, there was a fire crackling in the grate. Mycroft had built and lit it himself. His fear of spies and informers has made him quite capable when it comes to such domestic tasks. I stood, leaning on the mantelpiece, studying the brass fire irons.

"Well?" Lord Bellinger demanded, before he had even removed his hat. "Do you have it?"

"Lord Bellinger," said Mycroft, genially. "Allow me to take your hat and stick. Have you passed a pleasant evening?"

"Don't temporize, Holmes," said Bellinger. "If you have it, produce it."

I drew the letter from my waistcoat pocket. Lord Bellinger was immediately dismayed by the size and shape of the envelope.

"Allow me to read it to you," I said. "Dear Edith Woodley..."

Bellinger's face twitched. As I continued, he sat down, slowly, saddened and chagrined.

"You were expecting something else," I finally said.

Bellinger nodded.

"You thought he was writing up a report of the mission, intending to submit it to his handlers."

"I confess I did," Bellinger replied. "But that is immaterial. The letter contains the same information, presented in a slightly different manner, and is therefore equally dangerous. We are therefore still in your debt, and I am prepared to reward you handsomely, once you turn over the document."

I smiled.

"Then you have no objection to my naming my price?"

Bellinger laughed. "None in the world, my dear fellow, provided it's one Her Majesty's government can afford."

"I will deliver the document to you," I said, "when the Labouchere Amendment has been repealed."

Bellinger was stunned at first. Then he leapt indignantly to his feet.

"This is blackmail, sir."

"I suppose it is."

"No, it's worse than blackmail, it's bribery. You are attempting to influence Parliament for your own private interests. You must know I cannot accede to such a request."

"Hundreds of men influence Parliament every day by less subtle means. You can accede to this request; you've acceded to others."

"Mr. Holmes," Bellinger said. "What you ask is quite impossible."

"Then I fear I must retain this document until it becomes possible."

A change came over Bellinger--and not the one I had expected. His anger left him, and his bluster. But what replaced them was not cringing or cowardice or cunning. It was something new, that I could not analyze.

"Mr. Holmes," he began. "I fear you have very little understanding of how your government functions. Why do you think the Labouchere Amendment was added to that bill in the first place?"

"I confess I have no idea," I said, hoping to disarm him until I had determined the meaning of the change in his demeanor.

"Well here's state secret number one," said Bellinger. "Neither does anyone else."

I was reduced, I fear, to staring, and saying, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't know why Labouchere proposed that amendment. Given his record and his constituency, I am inclined to believe it was an attempt at equalizing. The Contagious Diseases Act was only ever enforced against prostituted women. I believe he initially thought it would be more just--or perhaps just more politically palatable to his progressive followers--to target prostitutes of  _both_ sexes. Then, perhaps, it occurred to him that it might be simpler and more efficient simply to ban the acts themselves, rather than give lawyers the opportunity to haggle over the conditions under which they occurred. One cannot, of course, do the same on the distaff side, or the species would die out."

I must admit at least in this initial draft that I was by that time very uncertain of my position, my argument, even the ground on which I stood. I realized that by asking Lord Bellinger to repeal the law that made "gross indecency" between men a crime, I was identifying myself as the sort of criminal the Labouchere Amendment was designed to incarcerate. This the Committee had, of course, always expected; the Labouchere Amendment was the mute threat and silent danger with which I was always implicitly menaced whenever they 'requested' my help. But I had always been careful never to provide them with material evidence. Mycroft, indeed, was too stunned by this exchange even to intervene. And yet, this was far from any outcome I had predicted. If I was not utterly mistaken, Lord Bellinger was now patiently explaining to me that the Labouchere Amendment was not the expression of the united will of our Parliamentary representatives, but a type of freak, or error, or mistake.

"I may be mistaken. From a practical standpoint, however, it matters little--because once a thing like that is proposed, it becomes politically impossible  _not_  to pass it. Nobody wants to be the man who rose up to defend buggery on the floor of the House."

"You certainly don't," I snapped back.

In the icy silence that followed, I added, "My Lord."

"It is not up to me, Mr. Holmes," said Bellinger, sadly. "I tell you there are statesmen far more skilful than I am who would fail at the task you have set me. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, that it is not that I  _will not_  pay your price, but that I simply  _cannot_. I cannot do what you have asked me to do. Nobody can."

"Rather than go on insisting on impossibilities," Mycroft now put in, "perhaps Sherlock might name something other price. Or perhaps, Lord Bellinger, you wish to propose an alternative."

I could not name anything. I was consumed by anger--and by an infuriating but undeniable admiration for Lord Bellinger, whose strategic descent into candor had so deftly undermined my already vulnerable position.

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," Lord Bellinger replied. "I could undertake to convince the relevant Committees to remove both your brother and Doctor Watson from their lists. That will be difficult, and perhaps expensive, but certainly within the realm of possibility."

"Done," said Mycroft.

"No!" I shouted. "This is my bargain and it is  _not_  done!"

"Sherlock, this is exactly what you need and furthermore it is the best you can do."

Mycroft was right. It was exactly what I needed. It was what we had been scheming for all along. And it was most likely the best I could do. And yet...accepting this offer, after the failure of my first negotiation, appeared to me, unaccountably, to be a mean and a base thing. It appeared to me as craven, and selfish, and dishonourable. It appeared to me as the sort of thing I would not relish explaining to Watson.

And I did not know why. I did not know who or what I believed I would be betraying by accepting Bellinger's offer of protection. And on the other hand, would it not be a betrayal of Watson, who deserved a long and honourable life untouched by scandal, if I did  _not_ accept it?

Mycroft gestured toward me. "Sherlock," he said, very gently, "give his Lordship the letter."

I looked at Mycroft. I felt my resolve softening.

I threw the letter into the fire.

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft rose, with astonishing alacrity, to snatch it back. He knows--who better?--how long it takes paper to burn. But I had the poker in my hand before he could get to his feet. I swiftly buried the letter right in the heart of the coals, and then stood in front of the fire, holding out the poker agains them, as if they were twin mastiffs set to attack me.

"You...you  _puppy_!" Mycroft cried. "You've ruined yourself--you've ruined--"

"Now, Mr. Holmes," said Bellinger. Bellinger patted Mycroft's quivering shoulder, gently. I was surprised to see him bear the touch. I was equally surprised to discover that tears had come to Mycroft's eyes. I had not seen him cry since father's smash-up. And I am not sure that my memory of that day is entirely trustworthy.

Bellinger did not grab for the poker, or for me. He merely gripped Mycroft's shoulder in a friendly way, and watched me sadly as Mycroft, now openly weeping, searched his own pockets for a handkerchief.

"You don't want my protection," said Bellinger. "Nevertheless, as your punishment for destroying evidence of vital importance to the Committee, you shall have it all the same. Mr. Holmes," he said, addressing my brother. "It is unfortunate that I sent you both out at such a late hour based on an apprehension which has proved to be unfounded. Evidently Adair was  _not_ writing, and there was therefore  _no_  document. This will be a great relief to the Committee, however much they may deplore the needless expense. Thank you both for your services, gentlemen. Till we meet again."

Lord Bellinger exited. Mycroft and I stood in silence for some moments.

"Do you think he really--" I began.

"Yes, and," Mycroft murmured.

"Yes and what?"

"Yes, and I think it best that we execute the plan tomorrow," he said. "Lord Bellinger is not Prime Minister, after all. And it is highly possible that Lord Holdhurst has planted one or two other nasty surprises for us. We cannot move too quickly."

Without another word, he walked out. I sat down on the settee and stared into the fire, where the dying confession of Ronald Adair was slowly becoming a pile of ash (category #136, high-quality stationery). 

Mycroft was suddenly waving a document in my face. 

"Read this," he said. "And then burn it."

He walked away. I unfolded the brittle pages he had handed me. Mycroft will write on anything; but he is fussy about ink. I recognized his signature shade of greenish-black.

I read the letter. 

I have not burned it. I will also not record it in these pages. It will go into Watson's tin dispatch-box.

These notes have wandered very far from their original object. I will lay down my pen, attempt to snatch a few hours' sleep, and begin again. It pains me to seek my bed unaccompanied; but I am buoyed by visions of the future. It will not be long now before I will see him in our old sitting-room, in the chair he has so often adorned. Exactly as it was before, and entirely and utterly changed. 

Perhaps my next monograph after this one will be upon paradoxes.

 

END PART 1

**Author's Note:**

> A word about the Labouchere Amendment:
> 
> As Holmes notes, the Labouchere Amendment is the part of the Criminal Law of 1885 (the "blackmailer's charter") which made most forms of sexual contact between men illegal. ("Buggery" had been illegal since 1533.) It's named after Henry Labouchere, the Liberal MP who proposed it. The main purpose of the Criminal Law Amendment Act was to target prostitution more effectively and less abusively than the Contagious Diseases Act, which empowered authorities to just lock up women who were found unescorted in certain locations deemed to be prostitution hot spots. Labouchere's amendment was proposed at the last minute--and nobody really knows why he did it. Historians have argued multiple irreconcilable theories; but the truth is it will probably never be determined. This law that caused so many people so much pain may simply have been the result of one man's impulse. 
> 
> Lestrade notes in "The Seven Napoleons" that Holmes was naive about the realities of police work; here, we find him demonstrating naivete about how legislation works. It's hard for him to learn that solving the puzzle doesn't necessarily enable you to solve the problem.


End file.
